


every street in hell

by damnedscribblingwoman



Series: kings, queens, knights everywhere you look [6]
Category: 12th Century CE RPF, The Lion in Winter (1968)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Captivity, Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub Undertones, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Pining, Post-Canon, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Threesome, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:03:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22711573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnedscribblingwoman/pseuds/damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: Richard had once asked his confessor why, if God wished men to be virtuous, He fashioned their natures in such a way as to make it nearly impossible that they should be so. It had been the priest's less than useful answer that God, in His infinite mercy, never tempted men beyond their ability to bear it.Maybe so. In which case, Richard strongly suspected that he'd fallen too far for even God's infinite mercy to reach him. For even now, though he understood with perfect clarity what God wanted from him, though he understood with perfect clarity his duty as a Christian, a husband, a king, though he knew what virtue looked like, Richard's thoughts kept turning away from God, away from his wife, away from his unborn child. Geoffrey filled his mind.
Relationships: Geoffrey Plantagenet/Philip II of France, Geoffrey Plantagenet/Richard I of England, Philip II of France/Richard I of England, Richard "The Lionheart" of England/Philip II of France/Geoffrey Plantagenet
Series: kings, queens, knights everywhere you look [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/954096
Comments: 20
Kudos: 31
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	every street in hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).

> Hope you enjoy it, blueteak :)

"On the twenty-fourth day of the month of December, in the year of grace 1199, Richard, King of England, having no legitimate sons of his body, made his brother Geoffrey his heir. The king sought in this way to put an end to his brother's incessant rebellions, which brought nothing but misery to his subjects and destruction to his lands.

Thus chained by the dual ties of blood and callous self-interest, Geoffrey, Duke of Brittany, curbed his wild ways and became the king's most loyal and devoted subject. Prince John, brother to the king and to the duke, made his displeasure known by raising an army and fortifying his castles, but he was soon dealt with, and peace reigned in all the land.

This counterfeit peace could not and did not last. For God, in His infinite wisdom, did not see fit to reward perfidy with riches, nor disloyalty with a crown, but chose instead to answer the queen's pious and earnest prayers for a child.

On learning of the queen's blessed state, Prince Geoffrey, incensed, lost no time in sending envoys to the kings of France and Scotland and to every faithless baron in his brother's lands, sowing the seeds of rebellion and dissatisfaction where they might take root. Root they did take and blossomed into an unholy coalition of the damned and of the contemptible, and King Richard was soon besieged on all sides.

The valiant king fought his enemies with all the skill and strength at his command, but his forces were soon spread thin trying to fight off the combined attacks of weaker men and lesser kings, which like vermin did not cease to harass a superior adversary and by their sheer numbers overwhelm him.

And so it was that while King Richard was thus engaged securing his borders and dealing with his unruly barons, Geoffrey, that deceitful Judas, marched his army across Anjou and, through a wicked combination of violence and duplicity, took the castle and town of Angers.

Receiving word that his brother's army was on the march to meet him, Geoffrey, that cowardly villain, prepared the castle for a lengthy siege and secured the walls, that none may enter. But on recognising the colours of his friend and ally, the King of France, Geoffrey opened the gates to allow him entry, and the two greeted each other like brothers." - Roger of Hoveden, _Gesta Henrici II et Gesta Regis Ricardi_

* * *

Geoffrey dismissed the servants and glanced at the table where a hasty repast had been laid out. It was hardly a feast for kings, but he expected a siege sooner rather than later, and he suddenly found himself with far more mouths to feed than he'd anticipated.

"Not that I'm not glad to see you," he said, "but shouldn't you be in Normandy, playing hide and seek with Richard's army?"

Philip snorted, pouring himself some wine. "I'd hardly describe it in those terms. I _was_ in Normandy. We took Gisors not a week ago. But Richard is headed this way and I thought you could use the reinforcements. We can hold out long enough for the rest of my army to reach us."

Geoffrey could have managed that better without an extra five hundred men to house and feed, to say nothing of Philip himself, but no matter.

"It shouldn't be a problem," he said, smiling as he took the cup Philip offered him, all the while wishing him and his five hundred men to the devil. Supplies aside, Geoffrey was in no mood to play the host. He was in a mood to brood and seethe and give his temper free reign, none of which he could do in company. Not in this company. Philip might be a friend — Geoffrey's oldest, dearest, most useful friend — but he was king of France first and last, and Geoffrey did not forget it. Friendship only stretched so far. "The walls are twenty feet thick and forty feet high," he added, conversationally. "And we have enough food and water to last us till judgement day. The castle will hold."

Emptying the cup, he grimaced at the taste. Angevin vintages. Even the wine was bitter.

"I have no doubt it will," Philip said, refilling Geoffrey's cup. "I suppose if the siege drags on, we'll simply have to find some way to entertain ourselves in here, while Richard sits outside in the cold."

Ignoring a stab of pain on his side, Geoffrey laughed on cue, like a character in a play. "I'm sure we'll think of something." The bitterness of the wine lingered on his tongue as the room grew uncomfortably hot. "We've always been very good at amusing one another."

Philip's grin was all teeth. "So we have." He raised his cup, the movement slightly distorted, like a trick of light. "To old friends."

"To old friends." Geoffrey lifted the cup to his lips, willing the wine to clear his throat, to clear his mind, to settle his nerves. It tasted cool and bitter all the way down.

Sound rose in the distance — shouts and banging and the clinking of metal. Geoffrey turned his head towards the window and a wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him. He looked to Philip to find him watching him, the cup still full in his hand. His own fell to the ground as the room began to spin, the wine red like blood on the stone floor.

Staggering backwards, Geoffrey tried to think as panic and rage rose in his throat. Outside, the commotion grew louder.

"You—" His breathing came in fast, shallow breaths as he struggled to remain standing. "You—"

"Me." Philip moved closer and Geoffrey tried to draw his dagger, but his limbs grew increasingly heavy and his mind increasingly sluggish, and one moment he had the dagger, and the next the dagger was gone and there was only Philip's steady hands on his arms, guiding him backwards onto a chair. "Sit. Breathe. You're not dying; it just feels like it. You'll wake up too late to do anything foolish, like get yourself killed."

Geoffrey tried to speak but nothing intelligible came out, just garbled sounds that carried no meaning, only outrage. He dug his fingers into Philip's arms like a drowning man, struggling to hold on, struggling to focus.

"I could've—" he finally managed out of stubbornness and determination and sheer force of will. "I could've handed you half of France."

Philip's hand was warm and steady on the side of his face, the only point of stillness in the dissolving room.

"Maybe you could've, or maybe you couldn't," he said, his voice moving farther and farther away as Geoffrey slipped into unconsciousness. "But I don't like to gamble and he made me a better offer."

* * *

Philip watched as Richard climbed the steps to meet him. It was not an unpleasant sight. War agreed with him. It made him look sharper, more focused, the Richard Lionheart from troubadour tales — powerful and deliberate, in full command of his men, in full command of himself. He was, at forty four, as handsome a man as he'd been at twenty three.

Stopping next to Philip, Richard turned to survey the courtyard below, which was overflowing with foot soldiers and archers and knights — Richard's men, Philip's own. What Bretons remained were being led away in irons.

"Is it not proper that the Count of Anjou should kneel before his liege lord?" Philip asked mildly, without looking away from where a young squire was laboriously helping his master out of his armour.

"Perhaps," Richard said in the same tone. "But the King of England does not kneel before the King of France." A moment of silence, and then, "You've kept your word."

"Did you doubt it?"

A shrug. "One starts making deals with snakes, one expects to be bitten."

Indeed.

"How well you know me." Mild words, a mild tone. Majesty worn like armour. "But I've kept my part of the bargain, my lord king, and I expect you to keep yours."

"And so I shall, your grace." Sometimes it was hard not to think that Richard wore it better. "I've had the documents drawn up. They await our signatures."

Philip nodded his acknowledgement. Not that he'd expected Richard to go back on their agreement. A knight's word was his bond, and Richard valued honour more than he valued results. How that was true of any son of Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine, Philip couldn't say.

"Where is he?" Richard asked after a moment. Philip did not have to ask who he meant.

"Out cold. Come."

Philip had had Geoffrey carried to the chambers he'd taken for his own. He was their prisoner — he was Richard's prisoner — but Philip would not have him wake up in a cell. He might be a snake, but he wasn't heartless. Not all the time. Not if there was nothing to be gained by it.

The guards stationed outside the door stood aside to let them enter. The large, airy room was richly furnished with rugs and tapestries and a large four-poster bed on which Geoffrey lay motionless. Even his chest barely seemed to move.

"What did you give him?" Richard asked, leaning over his brother to check his pulse.

Philip shrugged.

"There's more to be found in the Holy Land than blood-soaked sand, if one knows where to look."

Much more, in fact. Philip had hated every second of that blasted crusade, but he'd learnt many a curious thing and carried back many a valuable item or piece of knowledge.

Richard's glare could've razed a city. "What does a Christian king want with infidel witchcraft?"

Ah, yes. How Philip had missed Richard's moralising.

"Do you wish to start a tally of the sins of Christian kings? Shall we start with yours?"

Philip's pointed look was not subtle, and Richard immediately snatched back his hand from where it rested, on Geoffrey's hair.

He glared at Philip, his scowl fierce and so very familiar.

"I expect you and your men to be gone by tomorrow. There's no reason for delay."

"That seems rather ungrateful, all things considered. I did just hand you Angers."

"And you've been paid handsomely for it. A county, a castle and thirty pieces of silver."

Judas. The sting of the insult was unexpected. Philip's conscience did not often trouble him; he was King of France, after all. Above him stood only God. And he'd long ago outgrown the boy who'd once cared about Richard's good opinion.

"It's an odd friend who asks for a favour then throws it back in one's face," he said, his smile as vicious as his tone was sweet.

"We're not friends, my lord king. We haven't been that in many years."

No. And they hadn't been friends back then, either. Not really. They'd been many things — many sinful, delicious, complicated things — but they hadn't been friends.

"And whose fault is that?" he asked, moving around the bed, drawing closer to Richard.

"Dare you ask me that? Time and time again, you've made war on my lands and on my people. You've colluded with Geoffrey, with John, with Leopold of Austria. Every enemy I have found a friend in the King of France."

"You always did hold a grudge."

"Do not make light of it!" Richard growled, and Philip bristled.

"What have I done that your brothers haven't done worse?" And Richard had always forgiven them for it, even John. For every plot, for every rebellion, for every last betrayal. Every time.

"So they have, and what of it? Do you think they're to be envied? Geoffrey will spend the rest of his life behind a closed door for this latest piece of treachery."

"You say it as though you believe it."

Richard glanced down at his brother's lifeless form. His voice, when he spoke, was grave and low. "I do. So should you. So should he. It's no longer about what I can forgive."

And with that he pushed past Philip.

"Richard." They weren't done. Philip wasn't done.

Pausing by the door, Richard said, without turning, "I want you gone by morning. You've done your part, you've collected your fee, and you and I have nothing more to say to one another."

Philip stared at the closed door for one long moment after Richard had left, anger and resentment burning in his chest — at Richard's coldness, at his contrariness, at his refusal to meet Philip halfway.

Turning away from the offending door, he sat down on the bed next to Geoffrey and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead.

"It's possible the people in his life would be less inclined to turn on him so often if he weren't so damn provoking all the time, don't you agree?"

Geoffrey did not answer, he did not stir. All his natural belligerence had been smoothed out of his expression and he looked calm and serene, at peace with all the world. It wouldn't last, of course. Philip anticipated a very different expression as soon as the sleeping draught wore off. But Philip did not worry that Geoffrey might hold this little ploy against him. Not in any lasting way.

They were alike, the two of them. They were the same. Geoffrey knew and understood all the ugly, petty, spiteful twists of Philip's soul because they so very perfectly mirrored his own.

Richard didn't, Richard couldn't. He was a very different sort of man. And he'd looked at Philip, once upon a time, and seen someone wonderful and perfect, like an angel from above. And he'd never forgiven Philip for not living up to that image of perfection that had only ever existed in his mind.

And if Philip were to be perfectly honest, he'd never forgiven Richard for making him so painfully aware of all the ways in which he'd fallen short, either.

* * *

Richard was drunk. Not very drunk, but definitely more drunk than any sensible man ought to be when under the same roof as Philip Capet.

Dismissing his pages, he emptied his cup and poured himself another drink before dragging himself to the armchair by the fire. It was a night for drinking.

He ought to be celebrating. With Anjou now under control, he'd put out the last of the fires Geoffrey had set. Brittany had been shown the error of its ways, William of Scotland had been driven back to his own side of the border, there was once again peace in Normandy, and Philip had agreed to Richard's terms for peace. There was still unrest in the Aquitaine, but when was there not? Rebellion and insurrection were as central a part of southern life as courtly love and the songs of troubadours. 

No, things were as under control as they were likely to get, and Richard ought to be pleased, he ought to be glad. He was neither. For now that the fighting was done, he had time to consider what must follow, and he found he had no stomach for it.

Richard wished himself back in Acre or Ascalon or Jerusalem. A crusader's life was a simple one: there was purpose and certainty and moral clarity. There was no moral clarity now. Only muddiness.

It was a strange king who did not wish to settle his own succession, but a child complicated things. God forgive him, but it did. After years of wars and border disputes, Richard had finally made peace with France and he'd made peace with Geoffrey, and John was John. Richard hadn't been worried about John. For the first time since he was a boy, there had been peace in the Angevin Empire, a peace likely to last.

It hadn't lasted a year.

And Berengaria had been so happy. So impossibly, so gloriously happy. She'd called the pregnancy a miracle. A gift from God. To Richard it hadn't — it didn't — feel like a gift. It felt like punishment, like a rebuke. Like a pointed reminder that earthly kings were anointed by God, not chosen by mortal men, and that though Richard seldom sought his wife's company, though he chose instead to engage in depraved, unnatural acts with men — depraved, unnatural acts with his own brother — God would provide.

God did provide. A child to reward Berengaria's virtue, a child to punish Richard's sin, a child to punish Geoffrey's.

A better, wiser king — a better, wiser man — would take it was a second chance. A sign of God's favour despite his many failings. An opportunity to do better.

Richard had once asked his confessor why, if God wished men to be virtuous, He fashioned their natures in such a way as to make it nearly impossible that they should be so. It had been the priest's less than useful answer that God, in His infinite mercy, never tempted men beyond their ability to bear it.

Maybe so. In which case, Richard strongly suspected that he'd fallen too far for even God's infinite mercy to reach him. For even now, though he understood with perfect clarity what God wanted from him, though he understood with perfect clarity his duty as a Christian, a husband, a king, though he knew what virtue looked like, Richard's thoughts kept turning away from God, away from his wife, away from his unborn child. Geoffrey filled his mind.

Geoffrey on the eve of that first battle against Henry's forces half a lifetime ago, pale and distracted even as he drank with the men and laughed at Hal's jokes.

Geoffrey's smug smile when they won that battle. Geoffrey's guarded look when they lost that war.

Geoffrey standing by Hal's tomb.

Geoffrey standing by Henry's.

Geoffrey's blank face in the crowd as Baldwin of Forbes lowered the English crown on Richard's head in Westminster Abbey.

Geoffrey's recognisable form across a crowded hall.

Geoffrey's recognisable form across a battlefield.

Geoffrey's back against Richard's as they fought together in Normandy, in Scotland, in the Welsh marches.

Geoffrey's blade striking Richard's as they fought each other in Brittany, in Anjou, in the Aquitaine.

Geoffrey on his knees.

Geoffrey on his knees looking up at Richard, angry and defiant.

Geoffrey on his knees looking up at Richard, breathless and eager.

Geoffrey on his knees before Richard, making his oath of fealty over, and over, and over again.

Geoffrey's lips on his. Geoffrey's lips on him.

Geoffrey sprawled naked on his bed. Geoffrey sprawled naked half on top of him.

Geoffrey as Richard's rival, as Richard's ally, as Richard's enemy, as Richard's brother, as Richard's—

Geoffrey's fleeting look of stunned betrayal when John cheerfully, gleefully, maliciously offered Richard his congratulations on the happy news, and had Geoffrey heard that they were about to become uncles?

Geoffrey toneless voice as he echoed John's congratulations; his tense shoulders as he bowed to Berengaria before leaving the room.

Geoffrey's debauched form on Philip's bed.

Geoffrey's listless form on Philip's bed.

Geoffrey behind a locked door that would not — could not — ever open again.

Angevins had a long, proud history of locking up their relatives, after all. Henry had hardly been an innovator in that area. A different Geoffrey, over a hundred years before, had spent the last twenty eight years of his life as his brother's prisoner, and who was Richard to break with family tradition?

He brought the cup to his lips only to find it empty. After staring down at it for one long moment, he hurled it at the fireplace, where it shattered loudly, sending clay flying in all directions.

"Did that help?"

Richard hadn't heard Philip come in, but he wasn't surprised. Any half-decent predator could smell blood in the air.

"Go find another carcass to pick at. You're not getting anything else out of me."

Smashing the cup had been premature. He needed more wine.

It would have been too much to hope that Philip would leave him alone to drink himself senseless in peace, but Richard was still surprised when he felt light fingers on his hair before Philip sat down on his lap.

"What in God's name are you doing?" he asked, his arms moving to rest on Philip's back and over the curve of his thigh — out of instinct or reflex or mindless, misguided habit.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Philip was lighter than Geoffrey, his frame slighter, but he felt familiar in much the same way, tempting in much the same way, dangerous in much the same way.

"A servant could walk in."

"In the mood you're in? I should hope your servants have better self-preservation instincts than that."

They did. Someone in his household had to. Richard had no self-preservation instincts at all.

"What are you doing?" he repeated, too tired for games. He'd spent years playing them, and he was so very tired.

"I've missed you."

Richard huffed a laugh, looking away. "Have you, indeed?"

Touching a hand to Richard's jaw, Philip forced him to meet his gaze.

"Do you doubt it?" he asked.

His eyes looked blue in the dim light of the candles, though Richard knew them to be green. He'd spent long afternoons studying those eyes, once upon a time. They'd inspired many a rash action and some shockingly bad poetry.

"Not only do I doubt it, I wonder what you want and how much it will cost me to part with it."

Philip's expression softened.

"I've hurt you," he said. "I'm sorry."

"For which time?"

"Any of them. All of them."

The list wasn't short. Philip had used him against Henry. He'd used him against Hal, against Geoffrey, against John. He'd used _them_ against him. He'd turned his back on Richard in the Holy Land and left him to rot in a German prison for thirteen long months that would have been longer had he but had his way. He'd spent that time merrily waging war on Richard's lands and castles and people.

And worst of all — worse than the broken treaties and the broken promises and the broken trust — once upon a time he'd made Richard love him. Richard doubted he'd ever forgive him for that.

"You'd do it all again," Richard said. Not an accusation. Just a statement of fact.

"Probably." Philip could always be depended on to be honest when honesty cost him nothing. "But I'm still sorry."

Whether or not he was, it didn't change a thing. Richard knew that and he did not forget it, but he was drunk and he was heartsick, and Philip looked too much like the boy he'd once loved.

"We can never be what we once were," he said, treacherous hands moving up Philip's back, treacherous gaze dropping down to Philip's lips.

Philip leaned his forehead against his, his fingers warm and steady on the nape of his neck.

"I'm not asking you to."

"And I'd trust a viper before I ever trusted you again."

"I'm not asking for your trust, either." He brushed his lips against Richard's and Richard turned his face away, trying to think around the fog in his mind, around Philip's form on his lap. "Do you fear," Philip said, a smile on his voice, "that if you take me to your bed, I'll pick your pocket while you're distracted and make off with a province?"

A province, a kingdom, a pound of flesh. But Richard had never once been able to turn Philip away — not twenty years ago and not now — and giving in was as easy as falling. He kissed him hard and fast, a very different kiss from the soft, gentle kisses of their youth.

Philip's fingers clutched Richard's tunic, and his startled sound when Richard pushed to his feet turned to muffled laughter against his lips. He allowed Richard to guide him backwards, tugging blindly on Richard's clothes as they staggered towards the bed.

* * *

The sun was not yet up by the time Philip made it back to his room. If the sentries posted outside had thoughts on the strange hours kept by his grace, the King of France, they were wise enough to keep them to themselves.

Geoffrey was still where Philip had left him, on the bed, his breathing deep and even. Infidel witchcraft or not, the sleeping draught was certainly effective. It made Philip wonder about the efficacy of other powders he'd brought back from the Holy Land. Perhaps he'd get to try them yet. Not tonight, though. All he wanted now was sleep.

Discarding his boots, he did not bother to remove his clothes, but climbed on the bed next to Geoffrey, pulling the covers over the both of them.

"What—?" Geoffrey's voice came out low and slurred as a sharp intake of air turned to short, panicked breaths. He shifted weakly under the blankets, the effects of the drug clinging to his mind, to his limbs, to his muscles, weighing him down.

Drawing closer to him, Philip cupped his face, turning it gently his way.

"There you are," he said, stroking Geoffrey's cheek with his thumb.

"Philip?"

"I'm here."

"What—"

"Easy. Don't try to move. Go back to sleep, Geoffrey. I'm here. Everything is fine."

"But—"

Brushing his lips against Geoffrey's, Philip kissed him, soft and sweet. "Everything is fine. Go back to sleep."

"Everything—"

"Everything is fine. I promise."

"—s fine." Managing to shift on the pillow just enough to bring their heads together, Geoffrey closed his eyes. Soon enough his breathing had evened out once more and he was fast asleep. Tired from a long, exhausting day, followed by a long, deliciously exhausting night, Philip was not very far behind.

When he woke up the next morning, Geoffrey was gone.

* * *

Geoffrey could taste blood on his tongue and his right shoulder was throbbing. He'd landed badly on it after falling down the last ten feet when scaling down the southern wall of the castle. It hadn't been a very bad fall, nor was it a particularly high section of wall, and he'd have got away clear if Richard's merry band of mercenaries had not caught up with him and his squire in a wood some ten miles north of Angers.

Mercadier had been one of their number, because the Heavens themselves were bent on punishing Geoffrey for existing, so of course he was.

"Well, isn't this a merry reunion?" he said, ignoring the exhaustion clinging to his bones and drawing his sword. His squire backed against him as Mercadier's men circled around them. "Your master tell you to go fetch?"

"The king seems to have misplaced a gnat. Me, I'd just crush the filthy thing under my boot and be done with it, but his grace wants it back, so here you have me, your lordship. Finding a gnat. Now will you come quietly or does this need to get unpleasant?"

The day would come when Geoffrey would sit back and watch while one of his men tore off Mercadier's entrails through his throat and force fed them back to him, and that was a promise. But pride was a fool's downfall, and it was high time Geoffrey remembered it.

"Whatever my brother is paying you, I will double it."

"You can't afford me, lordling. And I wouldn't sell my sword to you if you could. Now be a good boy and lower your blade before I make you."

The smirks and sneers of the men around him stung like pinpricks — sharp and brief and harmless. Pride was a fool's downfall.

Pride was a fool's downfall.

"You have no idea what I can afford. Perhaps your men won't be so quick to turn down an increase in wages just because you enjoy being Richard's lapdog."

The amused grin on the mercenary's face stung more than his relaxed stance. "Get him," he said, and Geoffrey had time only to shift in place before the men were on him.

There was only ever one way the fight was going to end. There were too many of them, and it wasn't long before Geoffrey's squire, William, was on the ground, coughing up blood. Geoffrey did not stop, however. He fought like a man possessed. The story went that the Plantagenets were descendants of the devil himself, and perhaps there was some truth to it.

A strong arm tightened around his neck from behind, pulling him back, as the distinctive tip of a dagger pressed warningly against his back.

"Better his lapdog than his whore," came Mercadier's voice, low and strained against his ear, and Geoffrey paused only for a fraction of a second before smashing his head back against Mercadier's. The mercenary let go with a curse and Geoffrey spun around on himself, drawing a wide circle with his dagger to keep all the men at bay. His sword was long lost.

William's scared yelp drew his attention to where one of the mercenaries — a tall, broad Brabant, older than the rest — stood holding a blade to his throat.

"Enough fucking around," the man said, his hand tightening on William's hair to keep him still. "Stand down or he dies."

And a small, ugly part of Geoffrey, drunk on rage and bloodlust, wanted to laugh. What did he care for a squire's life? He was a prince. A king's son. He did not bow to the demands of vermin. Let them kill the boy. It was nought to him.

But the larger, steadier part of Geoffrey knew there was no point. There were too many of them. He couldn't win and he couldn't run and he wouldn't reward William's loyalty with a brutal death at the hands of a sellsword. The boy had got him out of Angers. That they hadn't managed to outrun Richard's men was no fault of his.

Standing up straighter, Geoffrey held out his dagger away from his body and let it drop to the ground. Mercadier stood some distance to his left, trying to stop the blood pouring from his nose. A different man knelt on the floor, his arm cradled to his chest, blood soaking his sleeve from a cut from Geoffrey's dagger, while not too far from him a different mercenary leaned over the lifeless body of one of his fellows. No one was smirking now.

* * *

A group of knights awaited their arrival in Angers.

"The king will see the prisoner now," said Armand de Crécy, head of Philip's household knights.

"I don't follow your king's orders," Mercadier said.

"You will follow this one."

Mercadier glared at the knight, a hand on his sword. De Crécy looked back impassively, unfazed by the hollow posturing of low-born henchmen. The mercenary was the first one to look away. He exchanged a look with one of his men, who immediately took off without a word.

"Lead the way," he said with an exaggerated obeisance.

Geoffrey's squire and most of Mercadier's men stayed behind as de Crécy led them through dark, narrow corridors and back passageways up to the level where the living quarters were located. Geoffrey and William had followed that exact route in the opposite direction not too long ago.

The chamber Philip had taken for himself had once been Eleanor's. Geoffrey remembered being shown into it once as a small child, him and Hal and Richard. He remembered Eleanor sitting on an armchair with Richard on her lap, her arms around him. He remembered her amused smile at Hal's excited chatter. Geoffrey had sat very quietly on the bed, enjoying the rare treat of being in his mother's presence, basking in his brothers' reflected glory. He hadn't resented it, not then, not yet. He hadn't resented _them_. That had come later. Back then, there had only been awe and childish admiration. He'd looked up to his brothers, he'd wanted to be like them. Brave like them. Strong like them. To earn his mother's favour like them. He thought if he were very good, he might.

Mercadier pushed him down. Without his hands free to break his fall, Geoffrey's knees bore the full brunt of his weight, and he just managed to stop himself from wincing when he hit the floor at Philip's feet.

"Leave us," Philip said, his eyes on Geoffrey.

"The king ordered me to stay with the prisoner," Mercadier said, and Philip looked up as if noticing the mercenary for the first time.

"This king is ordering you to leave." The softness in his tone did nothing to hide the iron underneath. Philip Augustus, by the grace of God, King of France, did not issue requests. His very word was law, and he neither forgot it nor ever allowed anyone else to forget it.

And yet, for a second, Geoffrey thought Mercadier might baulk; he thought Mercadier might hold his ground. But though he was an arrogant, contrary upstart, the mercenary was no fool. He might feel safe enough in Richard's favour to treat Armand de Crécy with contempt, to treat Geoffrey himself with contempt, but a mercenary never knew where his next wages might come from. Bowing low, he turned and left the room, followed by his men, followed by Philip's knights.

Frowning slightly at the closed door, Philip turned his attention back to Geoffrey.

"Given all the trouble I went through to keep you out of harm's way, it seems rather ungrateful of you to almost break your neck climbing down a castle wall." He made to touch Geoffrey's cheek, where the pommel of Mercadier's dagger had left a nasty bruise, but Geoffrey flinched back, immediately baring his teeth in a vicious snarl to cover the reaction.

"I ought to have cut your throat."

"Now, now." Turning away, Philip moved towards the table, leaning back against it and lifting his goblet. "There's no need to be disagreeable."

"Disagreeable? You sold me out, you lying, scheming, double-crossing bastard." Geoffrey tried to turn his wrists to ease the pressure of the ropes binding them together, but it only made it worse.

"Mind your tongue, my lord duke."

"What? Does his grace, the King of France, not like hearing that there are purse snatchers in Parisian slums whose word is worth more than his?"

Pushing away from the table, Philip strolled across the room to stand before Geoffrey, who tilted his head back to meet his gaze.

"Stop talking before you say something you'll regret," Philip said, which was good advice as such things went. Geoffrey was well past good advice.

"Were you so desperate for Richard's cock up your ass," he said, the words like poison in his tongue, "that you'd agree to do his dirty work for him?"

"Were you?"

Geoffrey looked away, unwilling to concede the point, unable to refute it. He'd spent the better part of the previous year doing Richard's bidding, fighting Richard's wars, and more fool he.

Silence stretched between them. After a moment, Philip's hand on his chin made him turn his face up to meet his eyes once more.

"Are you done?" Philip asked.

And Geoffrey was. He felt deflated. Hollowed out. Even the niggling pain of the ropes biting into his wrists was not enough to get him to focus. His entire body ached.

"What did he promise you?" he asked only, because he wanted to know. Philip ran his thumb over Geoffrey's lower lip, his palm warm against his chin.

"The Vexin."

Of course it had been the bloody Vexin. The county had been part of Alys's dowry and, when nothing had come of her betrothal to Richard, it had quickly become a bone of contention between Philip and Henry, and then between Philip and Richard. Philip had finally conquered it back during the time Richard had spent as Henry VI's prisoner, only to lose it again the moment Richard was set free.

"I could have handed you all of Normandy," he said.

"No, you couldn't."

Maybe not. But he could've made a bloody nuisance of himself trying, and Philip had never not enjoyed watching Plantagenets pecking at each other.

Philip looked up at the sound of the door opening, a smile spreading across his face. He stood up straighter, pulling his hand away.

"I was wondering how long it would take for your mongrel to find you."

Richard's gaze fell on Geoffrey, who resisted the urge to shrink back, but could not stop himself from tugging uselessly on the binds around his wrists as if they might magically fall away.

"When I give my men orders, I expect them to follow them," Richard said, throwing the door shut behind him and crossing the room.

"How fortunate then that I'm not one of your men, as I have not the slightest inclination to follow your orders," Philip said congenially.

He turned towards the table and reached for the pitcher as Richard walked up to Geoffrey, who forced himself to stop fidgeting. He wasn't scared, Richard didn't scare him, and Geoffrey regretted only not causing more damage before getting caught.

Richard reached for him and Geoffrey tried to pull away, a futile, useless gesture. He was bound, on the floor. There was nowhere for him to go.

Grabbing Geoffrey's jaw, Richard turned his face, the better to inspect the damage Mercadier had done during their little encounter. His fingers were firm and calloused; they were familiar in a way that made Geoffrey's chest ache.

"You'll live," Richard said, letting go and turning towards Philip. The casual dismissal stung. "Do you think me foolish enough to drink that?" Richard asked Philip, who laughed good-naturedly and raised to his lips the cup he'd been offering Richard.

"You'll enjoy this one." He stepped into Richard's space, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck. "It makes a man's blood sing." The kiss was slow and deliberate and thorough, partly designed to get a reaction out of Richard, partly designed to get one out of Geoffrey. Philip never pulled on any strings that weren't attached to at least half a dozen people. He was a very accomplished puppeteer. And though Geoffrey knew it was giving Philip exactly what he wanted, he still had to look away.

"Infidel witchcraft," Richard muttered, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he took the cup from Philip. That smile hurt more than the kiss.

Philip laughed and shrugged, reaching for his own cup. "So tell your confessor."

"Well, isn't this a lovely reunion?" Geoffrey said, who knew better than to draw attention to himself, but who did it anyway, with all the ill-conceived stubbornness of a child who'd learned that if only he kept breaking things, someone was bound to notice him. "Enjoy the Vexin, Philip. Long may you keep it. Though I'll be shocked if it's still in your hands come Christmas. And you," he added venomously to Richard. "He only ever needed to bat his eyes your way for you to come running like a lovesick puppy, but if you think he won't turn on you the moment it suits him to do so, you're a bigger fool than I thought."

Richard regarded him with an unreadable expression for one long moment. Raising the cup to his lips, he drank most of its contents before setting it down on the table. Only then did he move towards Geoffrey, his the deliberate, graceful movements of a predator. Geoffrey glared at his brother, his heart hammering in his chest. He twisted his hands behind his back, increasing the pressure against the ropes, the pain turning sharp and biting and grounding. Richard's fingers on his hair were soft at first, gentle, and it was almost a relief when he viciously tightened his grip and yanked, forcing Geoffrey's head back.

"You betrayed me for the last time," he said, and Geoffrey clung to the pain he knew how to manage — the rope digging into his wrists, Richard's grip on his hair, the unnatural bend of his neck. "I hope it was worth it, for you'll spend the rest of your life in Vaudreuil for it."

Geoffrey's blood turned cold. He'd known the cost of failure — he'd learned it at sixteen, watching Eleanor pay the price for their failed rebellion — but knowledge was a funny thing. Sometimes it was like words on parchment, sometimes it was like a knife in the chest. And Geoffrey had been held prisoner before, he'd been held prisoner by Richard before, but the circumstances had changed. The brothers of kings with no sons were a valuable — if, at times, irritating — commodity. The brothers of kings with sons of their own had the unfortunate tendency to become superfluous. Superfluous or, what was worse, inconvenient.

"And how long a life will that be?" he asked. "Because you and I both know that there isn't a fortress deep enough or remote enough to hold me if you die before your whelp is old enough to lift a sword. You know it and I know it, and your lady wife knows it." Berengaria might be too meek and pious a mouse to act on it, but her brother, the King of Navarre, was not. "So what will it be, _brother_? A hangman's noose at dawn or a knife in the dark?"

Stepping onto the space between Geoffrey's legs, Richard looked down at him and ran his free hand along the curve of Geoffrey's throat.

"If I ever have you put to the death, little brother," he said, and no threat should feel so much like a caress, "it will be in full view of God and men, and the last thing you'll see is me."

Geoffrey blinked away the sudden wetness in his eyes and looked away, unable to hold Richard's gaze a moment longer.

After a second, Richard let go and moved away, the gulf between them stretching impossibly until Geoffrey wasn't sure he remembered how to breathe. And then Philip touched a hand to Richard's arm and all of Geoffrey's grief turned to rage.

"If you were going to whore yourself out to my brother, Philip, you really ought to have aimed for a bigger prize than the Vexin. You may be no more than an adequate fuck, but Richard always was a fool where you are concerned."

Richard turned to glare at him, but there was nothing but wry amusement in Philip's face.

"An adequate fuck?"

"In a less civilised age," Richard said, "someone would've cut off your tongue by now."

"And what a waste that would be." Philip took another sip of wine, eyes glinting as he looked at Geoffrey over the rim of the cup. "We can put his tongue to far better uses. We have much to celebrate after all. You have your peace and I have my county and we have him for entertainment."

"I'm not your fucking plaything, Philip."

The smile Philip shot him sent a shiver down Geoffrey's spine. "Today you are."

"I will make you pay for this if it's the last thing I do. You have my word on it." Which was the mother of all empty threats, but Geoffrey was angry and rattled and cornered, and empty threats were all he had left.

"Keep talking and I'll gag you for good measure," Richard said, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him up. After so long on his knees, Geoffrey's legs almost buckled under him as he tried to push Richard off.

"Get your fucking hands off me."

"Get him on the bed," Philip said, moving out of the way.

"Not just yet. We'll have our fun, but first, he's going to learn that actions have consequences. Aren't you, little brother?"

Geoffrey tried to wrench his arm free, but Richard's iron grip only grew tighter and, without the use of his hands, Geoffrey had little choice but to let himself be dragged across the room. Richard swept his free arm over the table, sending all the things on it crashing to the floor — parchment and fruit and a box of trinkets. Philip just managed to rescue the wine. Geoffrey's chest hit the wooden tabletop hard and fear gripped him, squeezing his lungs and driving his renewed efforts to get free, to get away, to stand back up.

"Geoffrey. Geoff." Richard's familiar weight on his back managed to pierce through the fog of panic clouding his mind. "Settle down, princeling," he said, his right hand a steady pressure on Geoffrey's lower back. "That's it. Stop struggling."

Geoffrey's heart hammered in his chest and he could barely hear for the blood thumping in his ears, but Richard did not move, Richard did not ease up his grip on him, not until Geoffrey took a deep breath and relaxed somewhat.

"Good. Move and I'll tie you to the table," he said, pulling away. "I grow tired of your temper tantrums. If you insist on behaving like an errant child, I shall treat you like one. Hold him down."

Philip moved around the table and Geoffrey tried to focus, he tried hard to stay still, but he still flinched when Philip touched him.

"Easy," Philip said, his hands gentle on Geoffrey's shoulders, on his hair, on the nape of his neck. "Calm down."

It was easier said than done. From the corner of his eye, Geoffrey could see Richard unfastening his belt and it made his heart race and his thoughts scatter and his blood run cold. He hated this part. And he hated it even when he didn't have Philip for an audience. Oh, he was fine with pain. The pain didn't scare him. Geoffrey had grown up with a sword in his hand. He'd been knocked down and knocked around and lunged at and stabbed at and beaten. Sometimes even by Richard. Sometimes even because Geoffrey had asked him to. One could count his age in scars, like rings on a tree. But there was a fundamental difference between pain come by honestly in a battle or a joust or a drunken brawl, and being spanked like a child, bent over a table with his trousers around his ankles.

Cold air hit his overheated skin when Richard pulled down his trousers, and Geoffrey felt himself flush. His hands tugged weakly at the ropes, a nervous reflex that served no purpose.

"If you want to say sorry, now's the time," Richard said, the mockery in his tone biting and familiar. Steadying.

"Fuck you," Geoffrey said, his hands going still.

The leather belt hit his buttocks with a loud smack, the pain hot and sharp, and Geoffrey closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in reflex, his whole body tensing in a way that only made the strike that followed on the heels of the first that much worse. Richard did not hold back. He hit him five times in quick succession, each strike harder than the one before. Geoffrey kept still and he kept silent, stubbornly refusing to give either Richard or Philip the satisfaction of watching him squirm.

"Stop holding your breath, you fool," Richard said, pausing a moment, and Geoffrey let out a shaky breath as if on command. Philip ran his fingers through his hair, soft and gentle, and Geoffrey hated himself for leaning into it. He didn't want to find it comforting. He didn't want to feel grateful. Pain radiated across his buttocks and upper thighs, pulsating and hot, but manageable. It was fine. He was fine. He'd suffered worse in the tournament circuit, and he did that for sport.

Another strike of the belt drew a soft gasp out of him and he instinctively drew in a sharp breath, holding it in, only for Richard to hit him again, saying firmly, "Breathe."

It took effort and concentration, but Geoffrey tried to do as he was told. He focused hard on his breathing, on the mechanics of it, on the simple act of breathing in and breathing out in time with the steady rhythm Richard set. The pain built steadily, but giving in proved easier than holding out, and Geoffrey rode that rising tide without drowning, even as Richard dragged increasingly louder whimpers and gasps of pain out of him.

Philip traced Geoffrey's lips with the pad of his thumb before pushing in, and Geoffrey instinctively sucked on it, freezing when a harder strike almost made him bite down. Philip chuckled and pulled out his thumb, only to replace it with two more fingers.

"Careful now," he said, a smile in his voice, slowly pushing the fingers in and out of Geoffrey's mouth. Geoffrey's breath hitched and he lost the trick of breathing in time with Richard's strikes, or perhaps Richard changed the rhythm because suddenly it was harder to breathe and harder to focus and harder to deal with the mounting pain, which radiated across his buttocks and thighs and lower back, deep and constant and loud.

Philip pushed his fingers all the way to the back of his throat and Geoffrey gagged, instinctively trying to move away. Philip's gentle hand on his hair turned hard, his iron grip keeping him in place just as another strike of the belt dragged a broken sob out of him.

"Keep breathing, darling," Philip said, pulling his fingers back slightly and relaxing his hand on Geoffrey's hair. He kept fucking Geoffrey's mouth with his fingers as Richard resumed his steady, predictable rhythm, but Geoffrey could no longer sink into it like before. All his focus was on making sure he didn't bite down, and he couldn't breathe properly and he couldn't keep up with the rising pain and he couldn't even grit his teeth to help him bear it.

Geoffrey didn't realise he was sobbing until he heard Philip say, "All right. All right, now. Richard. That's enough."

And it was doubtful whether Richard had ever heard an order he chose to follow, but he followed this one, for the belt stopped. Philip pulled his fingers away and Geoffrey turned his head, pressing his forehead against the hard wood, struggling to stop crying, to stop shaking, to get a grip.

Leaning over him, Philip pressed a kiss to the back of his head, and Richard drew closer. He ran firm, careful hands up Geoffrey's thighs, over the curve of his buttocks, and dull pain lit up in shades of orange and red behind Geoffrey's closed eyelids.

"Easy, princeling," Richard said when Geoffrey tried to shy away. "It's over. It's done." He pulled away and Geoffrey opened his eyes, his whole body tensing. It couldn't be over, they couldn't be done. Not yet. He couldn't— Richard couldn't leave. He couldn't. Not—

A hand on his bound wrists scattered his racing thoughts. The tension of the rope increased and then eased off as the rope fell away, and Geoffrey winced at the pain in his joints as he brought his arms forward to rest on the table.

"Should have said sorry," Richard said as he kissed the back of Geoffrey's neck, his body warm and familiar against his back, and Geoffrey relaxed and snorted, turning his head to the side.

"Fuck you."

"Or maybe you shouldn't have," Richard added, as if Geoffrey hadn't spoken, right hand moving down Geoffrey's back and reaching around his waist. "Maybe you were happy getting exactly what you got." Richard's fingers closed around his cock and Geoffrey sucked in a breath. He wasn't hard, not entirely, but his cock had noticeably plumped up during that brutal beating, and it took no more than a few strokes of Richard's familiar hand for it to harden further. Richard chuckled. "And Philip was worried," he said, the mockery in his tone cutting. Geoffrey struggled not to fidget, not to react, not to moan as Richard increased the pressure of his hand. "He shouldn't have been, should he? I know exactly what you like. I know exactly what sort of depraved little thing you are."

Stung, Geoffrey tried to push himself off the table and Richard off him, but Richard kept him easily in place and tightened his hand painfully around his cock.

"Settle down, princeling," he said. Geoffrey's cock twitched and he hated himself and Richard for it. His loathing only increased when Richard looked up at Philip and asked, "Do you want to fuck him?"

"God, yes." He ran his hand through Geoffrey's hair, softly scratching his scalp. "I want his mouth. Turn him around."

"No, wait. Richard. Get your fucking hands off me."

But they ignored him as Richard easily flipped him around so he was laying on his back. Geoffrey blanched when his ass touched the table, but the pain was nothing to how exposed he felt like this, tear-stained face and hard cock fully on display. It was almost a relief when Philip pulled Geoffrey's tunic over his head. For a few blessed seconds he couldn't see a thing, and that somehow made it better, as if him being unable to see them also meant that they couldn't see him. It didn't last, of course. As soon as he was free of the garment, he lifted a hand to his face to dry his cheeks, but Philip grabbed his wrist.

"No," he said, leaning over Geoffrey to press a soft kiss to his lips in an absurd upside down angle, while Richard pulled off his boots. Reaching up, Geoffrey touched Philip's face and was rewarded with another soft peck on the lips, on his check, on his forehead. For all that Geoffrey sought it, Philip's gentleness was almost harder to bear than Richard's callousness.

"Do you have something to help ease the way?" Richard asked Philip, and Geoffrey was almost disappointed when Philip directed Richard to the chest by the bed. In the mood he was in, he didn't want easy. He wanted hard and fast and brutal.

Lucky for him, Richard was in a mood to indulge him. He came back to the table and turned Geoffrey without preamble, making him lie across the narrower side of the table, ass hanging out and head tilted back. Startled by the sudden feeling of falling when Richard unceremoniously lifted his legs over his shoulders, Geoffrey instinctively raised his head for balance, but Philip stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

"Open up," he said, hard cock pressing against Geoffrey's lips. Geoffrey opened his mouth instinctively, moaning despite himself as Philip sank into him. The sound turned into a muffled whimper when Richard unexpectedly pushed two slick fingers inside him all the way down to the knuckle.

"Stop whining," Richard said with a slap to Geoffrey's thigh that nearly made him jump and made Philip chuckle somewhere above him.

"Oh, let him. He makes the most delicious sounds." As if to prove the point, Philip pushed his cock all the way to the back of Geoffrey's throat, keeping it there for one long moment as Geoffrey whined and spluttered and gagged around it.

Richard pushed in yet another finger inside him — too much, all of it too much, too soon, and Geoffrey tried to shift away, but he was trapped between the two of them, impaled by Philip's cock and Richard's fingers, held down by the weight of his own need — for them, for this. He couldn't breathe and he couldn't think and it hurt. It was only when Philip pulled back enough to allow him to desperately gasp in some air that he realised he had lifted his hands and was clawing up at nothing. He forced them back down on the table wishing they were still tied up so he didn't have to think to keep them still.

Richard's fingers had stopped moving inside him and there was a hand on his cock, stroking him with slow, steady movements. It was that, more than anything else, that drew a sob out of him, the sound only partly muffled by the cock filling his mouth.

"Steady," Richard said, pulling out his fingers, and Geoffrey whined briefly at the loss before he felt Richard's cock slowly pushing inside him, splitting him open. Slow, shallow thrusts became faster and deeper and harder, became a brutal pounding that drove pained gasps and chocked moans out of him and made the table rattle against the floorboards.

Philip own controlled movements became increasingly choppier and more erratic as he fucked Geoffrey's mouth, finally spilling inside it. He shoved his cock all the way to the back of Geoffrey's throat one, two, three times as he spilled his seed. By the time he pulled out, Geoffrey wasn't sure he even remembered how to breathe anymore.

"God in heaven," Philip said, leaning back against the table, next to them, breathing heavily.

Without a cock in his mouth, Geoffrey's moans and gasps filled the room. He couldn't have stopped them if he tried, and he tried. But Richard was determined to make him howl, and what Richard wanted, Richard invariably got.

A younger Geoffrey might have come just like that, from nothing more than Richard fucking him raw. As it was, he was still rock hard and leaking when Richard came deep inside him.

He winced when Richard pulled out, but did not otherwise move, too winded and dazed even to string two thoughts together. He felt empty and aching, his cock hot and throbbing. Sweat cooled on his skin, trailing goosebumps down his arms and legs, and the position he was in grew increasingly uncomfortable. Geoffrey needed to sit up, he needed to get up, he needed— He needed— He trailed a hand down his chest, reaching for his cock, but strong fingers closed around his wrist.

"No you don't," Richard said, coming into view. "This isn't about your pleasure, princeling. Sit up."

Dull pain shot up Geoffrey's back as he did as he was told, dispelling some of the fog in his mind. He glared at Richard and tried to tug his hand free — partly out of contrariness, mostly because he wanted to feel Richard's hand tighten around his wrist.

"Let go," he demanded, the exact opposite of what he wanted, but then Geoffrey had never spited anyone so well as himself. And perhaps Richard understood that, because he tightened his grip further, the pressure steadying and grounding, just this side of crushing.

"Behave," he said mildly. Without letting go, he lifted a cup to Geoffrey's lips. "Drink this."

The wine was cool and sweet. It soothed his abused throat, and Geoffrey drank readily without thinking of what had happened the last time someone had offered him wine. Not until Philip said, "If you're not going to let him come, making him drink that is rather cruel."

"Do you think me cruel, little brother?" Richard asked, tilting the cup further without waiting for a reply. It was too much wine, too fast, and Geoffrey tried to pull away, but Richard forced him to drink the whole thing until the last drop. Only then did he pull the cup away. Geoffrey coughed and gasped, trying to catch his breath. "All right," Richard said, running both hands down Geoffrey's arms. "You're all right. Now get on the bed. If I see you touching yourself, I'm tying you up and offering you to my men for them to use as they see fit. And perhaps you'd enjoy being passed around like that, but I don't think you'd find them much kinder than me."

And without another look at Geoffrey, he walked away, accepting the cup Philip offered him.

"What _is_ in the wine?"

Philip laughed and tugged on Richard's tunic, pulling him closer against him. "A little something a Middle Eastern trader was kind enough to part with for a tidy sum," he said, his left hand disappearing between them. From Richard's sigh and the way he pressed harder against Philip, it was not difficult to image its whereabouts. "Would you say I got my money's worth?"

Turning away from them, Geoffrey made his way to the bed on unsteady legs and lay down across the foot of it, on his side. Across the room, Richard closed his eyes and moaned softly, leaning his forehead against Philip, who looked up at him with a knowing grin on his face. In that moment, Geoffrey hated them both, and that unknown Middle Eastern trader, and himself for how much he needed them to look at him, to remember he was there. And though he was no longer five years old, though he was under no illusions that if only he were very good he'd be rewarded for it, he still kept his hands away from his throbbing cock, digging his nails into his palms to hold still. Whatever was in the wine _was_ strong, and though Geoffrey had been aching before, now it was all he could do not to turn his hips and hump the bed covers. Soon enough, he might.

Closing his eyes shut, he pulled his knees up to his chest and tried to hold on to the tattered remains of his self control, but retreating into himself only made it worse, for suddenly there was nothing else in the world but him and his unbearably hard cock and that enormous, all-encompassing need.

A hand touched his arm and it was both relief and torture, for even so small a touch made him want. Richard chuckled at the low, pitiful sound that escaped his throat.

"I like you like this," he said, forcing Geoffrey to uncurl and nudging him further up on the bed.

"Miserable?"

Richard was now completely naked, and Geoffrey instinctively turned towards him, the need to touch him louder even than the need to touch himself. Disinclined to oblige him, Richard grabbed his hands and pushed him back down, a wolfish grin on his lips.

"Desperate." He nuzzled the curve of Geoffrey's neck, nibbling gently on it. And then he bit down — not hard enough to break the skin, just hard enough to hurt — and Geoffrey moaned, bucking his hips, his hands straining against Richard's hold.

"Richard, please."

"Had I but known how enjoyable this would be," Philip said, joining them on the bed, "I might have done it even without being offered the Vexin."

Richard snorted, giving Philip a sceptical look that went largely unnoticed, for Philip's entire attention had shifted to Geoffrey. He touched a hand to Geoffrey's cheek in a gentle caress and then trailed it down his chest, soft and slow, going lower, lower, lower, until Geoffrey could almost feel the shape of those long fingers around his cock. And then he stopped and Geoffrey groaned in frustration.

Philip laughed.

The next few hours were a blur of kisses and caresses, of gentle cruelty and deliberate cruelty and aching need, until Geoffrey was no longer sure of who he was or what he was or whether he existed outside of this, outside of them. He wanted them to stop, he wanted them to keep going, he wanted to close his eyes and drift off, just float away. He might have, if not for Richard's familiar hands on him — around his wrists or around his cock or warm and gentle on the side of his face — anchoring him down.

Philip added another finger to the three Richard already had inside him, and Geoffrey whimpered, turning his head against Richard's chest. And then Richard slightly shifted his hand, touching just the right spot inside him, and Geoffrey screamed, all of his nerves stripped raw.

Philip's voice sounded amused and far away as he asked, "Does that feel good, Geoff?"

Yes. No. He couldn't tell anymore.

They took turns fucking him or took him together or pleasured themselves and watched in rapt attention as the other fucked him. Sometimes they let him come, but mostly they didn't, using him to amuse themselves or each other, or to ease their own need. Geoffrey let them. He strongly suspected he would've let them even if he'd had a choice in the matter. He finally fell asleep nestled between the two of them, sore and worn out, his mind gone pleasantly blank.

He woke up some time later, a moan rising in his throat. He was on his side and Richard was curled around his back, slowly fucking him with careful, leisurely thrusts.

"Richard," he moaned, and Richard tightened his hand around him, kissing the curve of his neck. Philip drew closer to them and pulled Geoffrey's leg over his, allowing Richard to slightly shift his angle and push in deeper. Lining up his cock with Geoffrey's, Philip stroked the the two of them, his pace as measured as Richard's. Geoffrey's pleasure rose slow and steady like the tide. He reached his peak with barely a sound, and drifted off to sleep almost immediately, feeling sated and safe, with Philip pressed against him and Richard still buried deep inside him.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Philip woke up. The sun had dipped low in the sky and most of the room was cast in shadows. Movement on the bed drew his attention and he turned his head to see Geoffrey on his back, with Richard leaning over him. They were kissing — slow, soft, unhurried kisses that were meant to lead nowhere, that were an end in itself. Richard's hand cupped Geoffrey's cheek, Geoffrey's hand followed the curve of Richard's arm. It was like watching two strangers.

Pulling back to look at his brother, Richard's lips curved up slightly into a smile that grew wider when Geoffrey lifted his head off the pillow for another kiss, eager and needy. Richard kept just out of reach, but finally relented with a soft chuckle.

"Shush," he said, nuzzling Geoffrey's cheek before kissing him again, his lips muffling Geoffrey's soft litany of "Please, please, please, please."

And it was then, as he watched them kiss in the half-light of approaching dusk, that something made sense to Philip that had evaded him until now. This whole debacle, it wasn't about the child. It had never been about the child. Not really, or at least, not only.

It had puzzled Philip. Geoffrey was smart. Too smart to let himself get cornered so easily with so little provocation, and to lose so much in an ill-conceived gamble. He'd been Richard's heir, and a pregnancy wasn't a child, wasn't an heir, and it might never be. A smart man would've waited to see which way the wind was blowing, and Geoffrey was one of the smartest men Philip knew. But he hadn't been smart about this, and Philip hadn't understood why until this very moment. How could he have? Philip had never minded sharing any of his lovers — certainly not with their wives — and he'd never once doubted that he was loved, for of course he was.

But Geoffrey had minded, did mind it, and all he had were doubts. He'd been angry and hurt, and — in true Angevin fashion — he'd lashed out. Queen Eleanor wouldn't have approved or understood. Henry had done worse.

Thomas Becket could well attest to the volatility of Angevin tempers.

And though Geoffrey took largely after his crafty, cunning mother — like Eleanor, he was sharp, quick-minded, quick-witted, shrewd — he was also his father's son. The crucial difference was, of course, that unlike Henry, Geoffrey didn't have a crown to hide behind. A throne did much to shield a man from lasting consequences.

There was nothing Philip could do now to save Geoffrey from the lasting consequences of his own stupidity. He knew that, even as he wished it were otherwise. It'd be up to Richard — stern, harsh, severe Richard, who had but a passing acquaintance with forgiveness and who did nothing half so well as hold a grudge. Philip should know.

But as he watched them silently kiss in the gathering darkness, as he watched Richard's unusual gentleness and uncharacteristic patience and the way he looked at Geoffrey — like something prized and cherished, like something precious — Philip thought there was some cause for optimism.

He hoped there was. He adored Richard, but he adored Geoffrey too. He wanted him free and content and within reach.

And besides, John was useless as an ally. Philip needed someone he could use to tug on Richard's strings. Until this very moment he hadn't understood how perfectly Geoffrey suited that purpose.

* * *

Light from the open window woke Richard up. They'd slept through the night. He tried to shift away to get up, but Geoffrey grumbled in his sleep and tightened his arm around him. Richard subsided. He'd have to get up soon. Apart from anything else, his back was killing him and a full bladder demanded his attention. But he could spare a few minutes more. Until he got up from this bed, nothing of substance had to be dealt with. Nothing had to be decided.

He looked over to see Philip looking back at him, on Geoffrey's other side.

"Let me take him back to Paris with me," Philip said, the back of his fingers resting casually against Richard's arm. "I'll keep him with me at court, out of trouble."

Richard ran a possessive hand down Geoffrey's back. "So you can use him against me the first chance you have? I think not."

"Is that the only reason?"

Richard looked away without replying. It was too early in the day to deal with Philip being clever. And it was reason enough, whatever others he may have.

"It could still be a girl," he said with a sigh, breaking the silence.

If Philip had trouble following the non-sequitur, he did not show it, but said, "And so if it is? It makes no difference."

"It makes a difference."

"Would your lady mother think so?"

No, she wouldn't. Eleanor had been her father's heir, and she'd succeeded him on his death, when she was but fifteen. In time she'd come to wear the crowns of both England and France, and given birth to two English kings, but through all of that and to this day, she still thought of herself as Duchess of Aquitaine first and last and always.

"England isn't the Aquitaine," he said anyway, because it was true.

"No, indeed," Philip agreed. "Though remind me, how did you father come by his throne?"

Richard did not reply. He understood what Philip was doing, needling him into contrariness, but Richard was not so contrary that he'd be a fool. His throne would never be safe until Geoffrey was on the other side of a locked door, and well he knew it.

Geoffrey stirred, his weight shifting where it rested half on top of Richard, and Richard tightened his armed around him and kissed the top of his head. "Go back to sleep," he said, and Geoffrey mumbled something unintelligible and settled back down with a sigh, warm and heavy and familiar.

Just a little while longer. That's all Richard wanted. Until he got up from this bed, nothing of substance had to be dealt with. Nothing had to be decided.

* * *

"Queen Berengaria of England was delivered of a daughter in the early hours of the twenty third day of the month of November, in the year of our Lord 1201. Both mother and child being safe and in health, this happy event was met with much rejoicing throughout all the land. And though some were disappointed by the queen's failure to deliver a male heir, they consoled themselves with the thought that God would surely provide.

The young princess was christened at Westminster Abbey, in the presence of all the great lords and ladies of the realm. Among those were her uncles: John, Count of Mortain, and Geoffrey, Duke of Brittany. And if there were those among the guests who were surprised to see Geoffrey, who'd been confined to his lands by his royal brother for the latest in a very long string of rebellions, to them King Richard said only that it was a happy occasion and he'd have his family about him. And though those people might then have justifiably wondered why, with a family such as his, he might have wished it to be so, they were wise enough not to voice such thoughts but to keep them to themselves." - Roger of Hoveden, _Gesta Henrici II et Gesta Regis Ricardi_


End file.
